Night Watch

Vimes strolled back to the house. Off the register? Was he allowed to appeal? Perhaps they thought—

The scent rolled over him.

He looked up.

Overhead, a lilac tree was in bloom.

He stared.

Damn! Damn! Damn! Every year he forgot. Well, no. He never forgot. He just put the memories away, like old silverware that you didn't want to tarnish. And every year they came back, sharp and sparkling, and stabbed him in the heart. And today, of all days…

He reached up, and his hand trembled as he grasped a bloom and gently broke the stem. He sniffed at it. He stood for a moment, staring at nothing. And then he carried the sprig of lilac carefully back up to his dressing room.

Willikins had prepared the official uniform for today. Sam Vimes stared at it blankly, and then remembered. Watch Committee. Right. The battered old breastplate wouldn't do, would it…Not for His Grace the Duke of Ankh, Commander of the City Watch, Sir Samuel Vimes. Lord Vetinari had been very definite about that, blast it.

Blast it all the more because, unfortunately, Sam Vimes could see the point. He hated the official uniform, but he represented a bit more than just himself these days. Sam Vimes had been able to turn up for meetings with grubby armour, and even Sir Samuel Vimes could generally contrive to find a way to stay in street uniform at all times, but a Duke…well, a Duke needed a bit of polish. A Duke couldn't have the arse hanging out of his trousers when meeting foreign diplomats. Actually, even plain old Sam Vimes never had the arse hanging out of his trousers, either, but no one would have actually started a war if he had.

The plain old Sam Vimes had fought back. He got rid of most of the plumes and the stupid tights, and ended up with a dress uniform that at least looked as though its owner was male. But the helmet had gold decoration, and the bespoke armourers had made a new, gleaming breastplate with useless gold ornamentation on it. Sam Vimes felt like a class traitor every time he wore it. He hated being thought of as one of those people that wore stupid ornamental armour. It was gilt by association.

He twirled the sprig of lilac in his fingers, and smelled again the heady smell. Yes…it hadn't always been like this…

Someone had just spoken to him. He looked up.

“What?” he barked.

“I enquired if her ladyship is well, your grace?” said the butler, looking startled. “Are you feeling all right, your grace?”

“What? Oh, yes. No. I'm fine. So is her ladyship, yes, thank you. I popped in before I went outside. Mrs Content is with her. She says it won't be for a while.”

“I have advised the kitchen to have plenty of hot water ready, your grace, nevertheless,” said Willikins, helping Vimes on with the gilty breastplate.

“Yes. Why do they need all that water, do you think?”

“I couldn't say, your grace,” said Willikins. “Probably best not to enquire.”

Vimes nodded. Sybil had already made it quite clear, with gentle tact, that he was not required on this particular case. It had been, he had to admit, a bit of a relief.

He handed Willikins the sprig of lilac. The butler took it without comment, inserted it into a little silver tube of water that would keep it fresh for hours, and fixed it on to one of the breastplate straps.

“Time moves on, doesn't it, your grace,” he said, dusting him down with a small brush.

Vimes took out his watch. “It certainly does. Look, I'll drop in at the Yard on my way to the palace, sign what needs signing, and I'll be back as soon as possible, all right?”

Willikins gave him a look of almost unbutlery concern. “I'm sure her ladyship will be fine, your grace,” he said. “Of course she is not, not—”

“—young,” said Vimes.

“I would say she is richer in years than many other primi-gravidae,” said Willikins smoothly. “But she is a well-built lady, if you don't mind me saying so, and her family have traditionally had very little trouble in the childbirth department—”

“Primi what?”

“New mothers, your grace. I'm sure her ladyship would much rather know that you were running after miscreants than wearing a hole in the library carpet.”

“I expect you're right, Willikins. Er…oh, yes, there's a young lady dog-paddling in the old cesspit, Willikins.”

“Very good, your grace. I shall send the kitchen boy down there with a ladder directly. And a message to the Assassins' Guild?”

“Good idea. She'll need clean clothes and a bath.”

“I think, perhaps, the hose in the old scullery might be more appropriate, your grace? To start with, at least?”

“Good point. See to it. And now I must be off.”

In the crowded main office of the Pseudopolis Yard Watch House, Sergeant Colon absent-mindedly adjusted the sprig of lilac that he'd stuck into his helmet like a plume.

“They go very strange, Nobby,” he said, leafing listlessly through the morning's paperwork. “It's a copper thing. Happened to me when I had kids. You get tough.”